A lifetime under house arrest. Outside I hear the keys of my executioners
jingle. If you wear a blindfold does the firing squad exist?


Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes, yes,
this must stopómy soul is dark,
and itís flowers are nightshade and wolfbane.

We must put this behind us and get back to work.

Damn the sun and its flowers.
Damn the glass eye of the moon.
Damn my weakness and this heavy hour.

My heart quakes. Thank God, itís Friday.

This is a transcription of a tape recorded by Linda Tripp.  Nothing was ever
made of it because the events in Dallas superseded this situation in
importance. Camelot is now a wispy memory.

e-mail the poet at rychard@sonic.net
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